


Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep

by Etherea



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Whorephobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Protective Lambert (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24941560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etherea/pseuds/Etherea
Summary: The other children of the village shriek, when the Witchers ride into town. They tell the same tall tales their parents have told them, passed in whispers and spun like sugar until they are taller still.They say Witchers eat children; that’s how they look so young but live for centuries.They say Witchers cannot feel, that their hearts are burned and salted when they are made.Kaja knows better.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Processpending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Processpending/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Biker and the Songbird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24347737) by [Processpending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Processpending/pseuds/Processpending). 



> Ware the tags; nothing is explicitly or graphically discussed.

The other children of the village shriek, when the Witchers ride into town. They tell the same tall tales their parents have told them, passed in whispers and spun like sugar until they are taller still. 

They say Witchers eat children; that’s how they look so young but live for centuries.

They say Witchers cannot feel, that their hearts are burned and salted when they are made.

Kaja knows better.

* * *

It was a slattern from the whorehouse she went to first, when she could no longer bear her hurt in silence. She knows now she oughtn’t use those words, spat by the town’s married women in judgement, jealousy, or both, but ‘slattern’ was the only word she knew then. In their finery, which was less fine now than perhaps it once had been, they held her as she wept and fell to pieces. Dried her eyes, fed her apricots, and listened as she spoke about what kind of man Kaja’s mother had married after she was widowed.

They went first to the magistrate, who kicked them out and laughed. Who would believe the word of a whore, or a child? Certainly not he, who saw fit to believe the flattering lies he paid them to moan, when he came for his weekly indulgences. Such vile accusations, against a well-to-do merchant, known to all as an upstanding citizen? From women? Ridiculous.

So. Justice was not on offer. No passing knights or wandering heroes happened through their backwater timbermill town. Kaja shrank, in body and mind, and stayed at the whorehouse whenever she could. Each time she surrendered to home and slunk back to the brothel, she floated a little further from the women’s reach.

Eventually, the madam sent out a missive via some dark magic or secret messenger

A week later, the Witchers arrived.

In lockstep their horses stamped, each bearing a black-clad man with the bearing of a warrior and the swords to match. The leader of their foreboding column dismounted, and his startling amber eyes fell first to the madam of the brothel, and then to Kaja where she hid in her skirts. He dismounted and strode over to kneel before her, so that she was looking down at him. Up close, his strange eyes were warm and open, and his dark, close-cropped hair reminded her of a cat she’d had. Her mother’s new husband had said black cats were bad luck, and it had disappeared. The cat-like man before her now smiled. 

He introduced himself as Lambert, and asked if she knew of any arses that needed kicking.

Kaja laughed into the madam’s skirt, and reached out to take the gloved hand the Witcher offered. She was whisked into his mount’s saddle and the mob of them surrounded her as they walked their horses out of town. Women skittered out of houses and alleys to scold the madam, and ask what she thought would happen to a little girl in the company of such brutes. She did not deign to reply. 

When Kaja and her Witchers (she had come to think of them all as hers about two minutes after meeting, when a fair number of them had ruffled her hair and, once they discovered it made her laugh, poked fun at Lambert to make him growl for her) reached a clearing on the outskirts of town, she was deposited on the ground, where Lambert knelt before her once again. The other Witchers encircled them, holding the reins of their horses, the only sound in the air the breath of those present and the sounds of any forest creatures bold enough to remain nearby. 

Lambert explained to Kaja that this group of Witchers was dedicated to the protection of children. He said that they had all witnessed, or even experienced, some of the worst things humans could do to one another. Murmurs from the surrounding men gave examples; she heard the words  _ beaten  _ and  _ torture _ and  _ only a babe _ and  _ swore I’d never _ , all blending together into a vengeful rumble that settled into her bones like a second heartbeat. 

Kaja looked down at the ground, and her voice joined theirs as she spoke to them all for the first time. About how her father’s death and debts left their family on the verge of ruin. About the man who had seemed so kind, to take in a widow and child when their landlord kicked them out. Of how, after the wedding, he began to seek from Kaja the comforts he ought to look for from his new wife. She spoke as the Witchers had, in plain and brutal language. The Witchers had not shielded her from the truth of their experience, and she offered them the same courtesy now. None of their words were addressed to her, even as she fell silent, but she heard the creaking of leather as gloved fists clenched, and hard breaths growled from behind clenched teeth. The kind of noises she fancied certain men might hear on a foggy, moonless night, that they would know meant a reckoning was upon them. 

She felt something cold in her hand. Looking down, she saw a Lambert pressing a silver medallion to her palm. The men around her all wore one, some with different animals. This one was a wolf, like the one he wore, but smaller, and the wolf it bore had a second tucked in under its chin. A pup. Her Witcher (they were all still hers, but Lambert was particularly Her Witcher,) explained that their medallions warned them of monsters and magic, but that this one was specially made for protection. He took it from her and held it close to his mouth, growled that he would protect her and fight for her, and passed it to the closest of his brothers. 

One by one, the dozen or so Witchers in the circled spoke promises to the medallion, and when it came back to her she couldn’t tell if it was warmed by their hands or by the fire of their words. She draped the silver chain over her neck. Next, Lambert held out a small leather vest, studded as his own armour was with silver. He murmured as he held it for her to put her arms through, explaining that she was a Witcher now, that she could choose a name, and that she was part of a family that would never again allow her to be hurt in such a way. He also said that the medallion was magic, and that if she was ever afraid or hurt he would hear her voice through it and come for her.   
  
She rode back into town with a straighter back, her own hands on the reins, her Wolf by her side and medallion on her chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Processpending for the inspiration of this work! I was reading their biker AU and couldn't help but think about the real life bikers who support victims of abuse, and what if Same Thing But With Witchers. And now there's this. Titles are all Shakespeare quotes.


End file.
